the base party spirit of literature? Well, while recalling the vain hope, the unworthy attack, the departed glory, may Memory exclaim with the Peri,—
"Poor race of man, said the pitying Spirit,
Dearly ye pay for your primal fall;
Some flowers of Eden ye still inherit,
But the trail of the serpent is over them all."
None of this, however, passed through Emily's mind. Those who have no part in the conflict see with the imagination: they behold the crimson banner, hear the stately trumpet, and think not of the dust of the march, or the agony of the battle; and Emily gazed on the individual before her with that intense exaltation and enthusiasm which is literature's best triumph.
But her attention was now attracted to the lady who took his arm. Ah! poets and painters have truth for the foundation of their dreams,—she, at least, looked the incarnation of her husband's genius. Her style of beauty was such as might have suited the days of chivalry—made for worship more than love—one whose affection was a triumph even more than a gift. Her mouth, which was like chiseled coral, had many smiles, and most of scorn; and its speech had as much of sarcasm as of sweet-
